


Whisper

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas Loves Cats, Fluff, M/M, Yard Sales, beanie babies - Freeform, cassette tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:57:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team Free Will versus the Yard Sale, or wherein Dean's on a hunt for cassette tapes, Sam looks for watches, and Castiel can't escape the stuffed cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisper

They’re heading to interview witnesses in Buckhead when Dean sees it, a pink sign on the side of the two lane stretching through the side streets of Brookhaven—“Yard sale!” Technically, it’s an estate sale. Different than a yard sale by the fact that it’s _indoors_ , but Dean doesn't care. Yard sales mean cheap shit for cash, and he can totally get behind that.

Sam rolls his eyes in the passenger seat and throws his head back, unenthused. “Seriously? We’re fifteen minutes away and you wanna take a _detour_?”

“What?” Dean gives him his best grin and turns off into the subdivision, navigating around the winding streets and following the pink signage—did it ever end? “You need another set of curlers, maybe they got some here.” He shoves Sam’s shoulder, giddy, ignoring the way his brother attempts to fling his eyes out of their sockets.

It’s always been something they’ve done in the past, when they’re too far from a place to shop for decent clothes and they have cash in their wallets ready to be dropped at a moments notice. Always necessary things, never trinkets. Dean never buys much, maybe something for Baby or another artifact to add to the library at the bunker if it’s weird enough, while Sam always rummages for books, somehow managing to come up with things of either great importance or value. First editions always pop up out of nowhere with him.

Even Castiel’s gotten into the habit the few times they’ve stopped, though his collection of antique barometers is getting worrying, considering there’s next to no humidity inside the bunker and half of them don't even work, anyway. “Your brother’s right, Dean,” he pipes up from the back seat, hands on the top of the bench seat, looking between the two of them. “There’ve been three unexplained murders within the last week, and if they’re following a pattern—.”

“It’ll be three days from now, I got that part.” Dean slaps the steering wheel and glances over his shoulder at Castiel, realizing all too fast how close their faces are, foreheads practically touching. Sam promptly breaks up the would-be moment by grabbing the wheel and jerking it to the left, all while scowling, ‘Eyes on the _road_ , _Dean_ ,’ and forcing him back to attention.

Castiel doesn't speak, after that—neither does Dean for that matter, at least until they park outside of their destination, a three story Colonial that has seen better days, six cars parked on the curb alongside the yard, green from the spring rains. A few yards over, two men stop to gawk by their truck at the sight of the Impala; Dean doesn't pay them any mind, just steps out of his car bristling with pride as he walks, Sam and Castiel at his back, his brother grumbling about Dean’s obsession with junk hunting and the Angel just along for the ride. Castiel says he stays because he doesn't want to have to deal with his brothers and sisters breathing down his neck; Dean thinks different, but neither he nor Sam question him further.

The inside of the home is even shabbier than its exterior, every room crammed from corner to corner with more crap than he can even process: costume jewelry, magazines, a large collection of watches, freaky cat figurines, comic books in the basement. It’s all overwhelming. The old woman sitting on one of the steps of the upstairs stairwell tells them that everything is fifty percent off today, and Sam and Castiel break off across the house, Castiel headed to the basement and Sam checking out the watch rack.

Dean, on the other hand, stays behind to ask a question. “You wouldn't happen to have cassette tapes, would you?”

The woman smiles a gummy grin and tilts her head to her left. “In the dresser, darlin’. You lookin’ for anything in particular?”

“Just browsing,” he shrugs. It’s the answer he always gives at these things, opting to not get his hopes up. Sam knows why he hits up so many yard sales, sure—cassette tapes can only last so long, and with how long they spend on the road going through shoe box, it’s only a matter of time before the audio strips crack or something gets stepped on. Or flung out the window in a rage—he still hasn’t forgiven Sam for that one.

“Well, my husband collected all sorts of music through the years, especially when CD Warehouse got rid of their stock.” She pointed to the oak-paneled dresser on the far end of the room, buried under jewelry and a statue that’s looking right at him at every angle. “You’re welcome to whatever you find, fifty cents each, Hell, if ya want, you can take the whole thing for fifty bucks!”

Dean snorted a laugh. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am.”

She waves him off with a smile. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”

He leaves her for the jewelry room and makes his way around the crap-covered dining table to the appointed dresser, reaching for the knob; Castiel stops him with a hand to his elbow, Dean jumping a few inches from the shock of it. Really, either Castiel needs a bell or Dean needs to pay more attention to his surroundings. He turns to the Angel with eyes wide, fighting his heart attempting to leap out of his chest. “You gotta stop _doing_ that—…The fuck do you have?”

Castiel glances to his shoulder, lifting a finger to tap the chin of a stuffed black-and-white socked cat, its beady brown eyes locked on him. Did everything in this house stare? “The daughter gave it to me for fifty cents. His name is [Zip](http://www.bbtoystore.com/store/BB_zip.html).”

Dean cocks a brow. “You actually _bought_ him?” Castiel nods and takes the cat in hand, picking it up by its front paws and holding it out to Dean; Dean holds the stuffed animal in his palm, squishing it so it folds in on itself, back paws touching the front. “Is this revenge for me saying no to a _real_ cat?”

“I’m sure this one won’t upset your _delicate_ allergies,” Castiel exaggerates with an eye roll. Dean hands the cat back and Castiel lets it drape over his shoulder, the Angel taking a moment to look around the room, eyes coming to rest on the dresser, opened only an inch from where Dean left it. “What are you looking for?”

Dean considers his options—he can give Castiel a bullshit excuse for what he’s doing, or can spill the reluctant truth. That he’s been looking for one specific cassette for most of his life on the road, the one song he knows by heart, only sung in another person’s voice—another woman’s. “I’m—looking for something,” he admits, sheepish, turning back to the cabinet and finally pulling it open, revealing nothing but rows upon rows of tapes, all the way to the back. “Dude, jackpot!”

Castiel doesn't comment much while he rummages through the various titles, plucking a few from the assortment and stacking them on a spare table nearby: tapes he already has but that need replacing, a few he hasn’t had in years, others he’s never seen the point in buying but Castiel’s taken an interest in when they turn on the radio. He picks out a few for Sam too, just to get him to shut up every once in a while. Fifty cents a pop? It’s a deal compared to what they go for online, plus shipping.

Castiel is gone by the time he finishes his shopping, at least twelve cassettes sitting on the table at his side, leaving him alone to gather them up himself. In the other room, he sees Sam talking to an older man about a watch and making enthusiastic hand gestures with a smile on his face. _Little shit didn't even wanna stop_ , Dean muses to himself. Dean does one final look through, this time keeping most of his sanity when Castiel shows up again, three more cats on his shoulders and two sticking out of his coat pockets.

They’re _all_ watching him—what is he, a stuffed cat whisperer? “Pretty sure we need to burn those, dude,” Dean comments offhand, snickering at Castiel’s horrified expression. “Relax, dude. If we’re gonna do anything to anything, it’s to that thing right there.” He points to the statue of a man cast in white marble with a child on his shoulder, holding a staff in one hand, the two sharing eternal glances.

“It’s a statue of Saint Christopher,” Castiel comments. Which, _oh._ Dean never thought about that. Castiel reaches over to pick up the statue, a foot tall in his hands, looking it over with cautious fingers. The yellow sticker tag on it reads twenty dollars—is he thinking about _buying_ it? “I’d imagine you’d know him.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees with a nod, going back to the drawer. “Dad used to have a medal when Sammy was a baby, hung from the rearview for a few years before Sammy got his hands on it. Think he’s still got it somewhere, you’d have to ask him.” With a sigh, he pulls back to stop his search; they don't have it, just like everyone else.

Out of his peripheral, he notices Castiel staring at him, his eyes softer somehow, sympathetic. “What are you looking for?”

Dean shakes his head, hating the bitterness of his voice when he tells Castiel. “There’s a… We had a tape of _Hey Jude_ years ago, got lost after the whole…truck accident thing. I’ve been lookin’ for a copy ever since.” He stops and glares at Castiel, pointing to the room where Sam is divvying up cash from his wallet. “And Sammy doesn't know, so don’t be gettin’ any bright ideas, alright?”

Castiel nods and looks between him and Sam, the statue still in his hands. “What about that one?”

Dean looks in the direction his eyes point, catching sight of a white-backed with [small lettering along the spine](https://public.dm2301.livefilestore.com/y2plIj7YXxraZjgrAZ9m-RC-aSWJ5r91h2OLQKNzYy2na3f_1_oOOXLlJZ30-NKbVDg2Fe8wxSC353kWDzjjfy3LifGWSBX5ErANzwazkLiLvY/1979HeyJude_inlaylarge.JPG?rdrts=108348301), the exact words he’s been looking for for _years_. “How the _fuck_ did you see that?” His voice comes out in barely a whisper. One of the cats on Castiel’s shoulder slumps, the Angel catching it before it falls; Dean swears they’re sentient. Plucking the tape from the drawer, he closes it behind him and holds the cassette in his hands, unbelieving that it’s _there_. That he’s holding it in his hands, and it’s only fifty cents. It shouldn't make him as teary as he does; he chokes it back before Castiel can say anything, but he knows Castiel noticed all the same.

“I won’t tell Sam,” Castiel whispers to him, and he lifts a hand to cover Dean’s own, warm, letting his fingers slip beneath the sleeve of his suit jacket unobserved. Dean thanks him with a nod and shuffles the tape between the others in his stack, leaving the room with Castiel at his side to pay for the collection and Castiel’s statue, being carried with the utmost care through the aisles.

“You two sure you don’t need a bag?” the woman asks after Dean fishes out thirty dollars. Dean declines again with the excuse that he can carry everything—and if he can’t, Castiel’s pockets are the next best option.

Which they are approximately two seconds after stepping onto the sidewalk, Sam already waiting by the Impala. The stupid cats are watching him from Castiel’s jacket pockets, eyeing him in suspicion when he reaches down to pluck them out, shoving the multitude of cassettes in in their place. “’F you’re gonna still wear this thing, then at least put these to good use, will you?”

Castiel holds the Beanies while Dean finishes shoving all thirteen tapes in, setting them on Dean’s shoulders when he stands upright, hands finally empty. And for once, Dean lets them sit there, giving Castiel a halfhearted glare all the while. “You tell Sammy I let you do this—.”

“You’ll strangle me in my sleep, I know.” Castiel laughs despite the threat and leans in to kiss his cheek, Dean’s face flaming two shades of red when he pulls away with a smile. “It’s our secret.”

Sam’s leaning on the driver’s side door when they return, Castiel stowing the statue in the trunk on a spare towel while Dean pops the passenger door, pulling his shoebox from under the seat. “I take it you refilled your stash?” Sam asks, patting the roof to catch Dean’s attention, face pinched in a restrained laugh at the sight of the cats on his shoulders.

Castiel hands off the tapes without a word, Dean stowing them wherever he can in the rapidly dwindling space of the box. “I take it you got yourself some fancy tech?” He points to the watch on Sam’s wrist, visible just beneath his jacket sleeve and gleaming in the sun. “What’d that cost, a few hundred?”

“Fourty bucks,” Sam corrects. Dean rolls his eyes and slides in the seat, Castiel taking his regular spot on the back bench, Sam taking over driving for the time. “Now, you wanna get back on the road before you find something _else_ to drag us to?”

“Hey, you enjoyed it.” Dean thumbs back to Castiel, now gathering all of the stuffed animals and setting them in the back dash; part of him wonders if the Angel had really been coerced into buying them all, or if he had an affinity for toys and wasn't letting anyone in on the secret. “And Cas back there got roped into buyin’ a bunch of cats, and I don’t see him complaining.”

“We’ve still wasted time, though,” Castiel chimes in, sitting back in his seat and holding the black-and-white Beanie in his palm. “Our appointment is in thirty minutes, if we’re lucky.”

Dean groans. “Oh sure, take _his_ side why don’t you.”

Sam laughs a triumphant noise and starts the engine, the trio setting off out of the neighborhood.

 

Later that night, after Sam’s gone to bed in their motel alongside Buford Highway and the lights are all turned out in the suburban homes and businesses, Castiel finds him in the backseat of the Impala with the car idling in the parking lot, head lolled along the top of the bench, half asleep. He slides in alongside and closes the door as quietly as he can, scooting over to let Dean rest his head on his shoulder, the soft sounds of Paul McCartney crooning over the sound system lulling him into a doze with the Angel at his side.

“Y’should sing it,” Dean murmurs, not quite conscious. His heart blooms at the feel of Castiel’s lips in his hair, one hand reaching across his lap to take both of his, threading their fingers together.

He does, and Dean sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is. I have a headcanon about Dean going to yardsales to replace broken cassette tapes, so here you go. Hopefully I can get back to writing my super secret smutty thing soon!
> 
> Also the tagging system is whack and thinks Beanie Babies are freeform.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
